The Tower
by Anti-clockwork
Summary: An epilogue-ish thing for Rapunzel. Make of it what you will.


_Based off Rapunzel. Make of it what you will. It gets kind of emo at the end. Sorry 'bout that._

_

* * *

_

**The Tower**

The tower is dark at night. Dark and cold.

She is locked in a room in a rundown building, a wall of climbing roses, vividly red, growing along the walls. Creeping, climbing, reaching; ever closer, ever faster. Thorns grasping her hair, stabbing her arms, catching her skirts...

They lie coiled in wait, guarding the heavy wooden door which hides the strange creature. Green – bewitching – are her eyes; vibrant; eerily so. Her skin is pale, deprived of light, and her hair – her amazing, exceptionally long hair, framing her face, soft as wool—

_Red. _

Red as blood. Dark crimson blood on snow. Red as the roses that line her cell; as the sunset turned violent, like a moment frozen in time, silent and serene as a rain of cherry blossoms falling in spring.

She remembers a time when she was locked in a different tower, where the thought of freedom never crossed her mind. She never left – never thought of leaving – after all, she was provided for, and she was happy. What reason was there to leave?

The witch would visit. Mother, she'd called her. Her hair was platinum, white as snow; her eyes a sea of tranquillity; calm and blue as the sky on sunny days. She would keep her company, bringing needles and thread so they could knit or embroider as the days passed idly.

And then _he_ appeared.

_(Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!)_

Really, it was ridiculous. She would throw down her braided hair, tying it around a hook on the windowsill, and he would climb up. Her Prince Charming. He'd bring her gifts; a musicbox, gems, roses, and he'd delight her with tales of his adventures travelling across lands, through caves, over mountains, across deserts and oceans, until she longed to see this magnificent world herself.

He still visits, once or twice a month; still brings her gifts, tells her tales, and makes her long for a freedom that seems just out of reach. He still calls her _Beloved_ (although she feels repulsed whenever she hears him say it now), still complements her beauty, infatuated as he is, and still treats her as though she were a delicate rose, to be considered with the utmost care.

She finds it disgusting.

But only when the fear has faded away can she look at him with contempt, and only when that small burst of adrenaline first appears can she look upon him without fear.

_(Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair.)_

Her hair is not gold, though some magical being seems to have blessed it with extraordinary length. The steps up the tower in which she resides are not gold either, but cold, hard stone. With each footfall an echo resounds; a deep, reverberating sound which haunts her mind on stormy nights.

He keeps her trapped like a bird; first enchanted by her voice, then enchanted by her beauty. Now she is merely a rarity. A doll kept – restrained – and safely stored away until forgotten. The cage which binds her is made of steel and stone. Even the small window to one side is barred, lest she thinks of escaping the same way he found her.

_(Beloved Rapunzel...)_

She'd carried his child once, twice. An accident one moonless night caused her to lose it. They blamed the witch and burned her at the stake, the stench of singed flesh filling the air suffocatingly. The second time she'd tried to run and he'd called the guards, claiming she was possessed, cursed, evil. They threw her in the dungeons until they could think of the appropriate punishment. No one noticed the bruises; dark purple blossoms on her arms and legs. All they saw were her eyes, bright emeralds, wild with fear, and her hair, a chaos of deep red strands making her seem almost feral.

It's the only reason he keeps her, the only reason he ever visits. Otherwise he would've already forgotten her existence. The only part of her he loves is her hair.

She's met her true parents. After all, the witch had told her she wasn't her true mother. The prince had found them and thought it a fitting gift, to let her meet the two who thought it fair to trade their daughter for a vegetable. They lived in a well-kept cottage, a work-weathered man and a comely middle-aged woman possessed by greed. She had demanded titles and privileges the moment she'd realised her daughter was marrying a prince and had been denied all and sent away.

Horrified tears had streamed down her face at the realisation that neither of her parents had cared for her at all – after all, who wouldn't be shocked? – and the prince had tried to soothe her with loving words, heartbroken as she was.

She hated him for it. Hated his pity. Hated the overwhelming reality of the situation, the knowledge that not even the mother who gave birth to her ever cared.

She thinks about it all, blindly staring at a basket of embroidery until the sharp glint of light reflecting off metal catches her eye and she realises she's looking at a pair of scissors. A spur of thought crosses her mind and she tentatively reaches out for the tool.

_(Rapunzel, what beautiful hair you have!)_

Gripping it tightly, she holds it to the base of her braided hair—

_("What would you do if I gave you freedom?"_

"_Anything."_

_A smirk. "Well then—")_

—And cuts.

Countless strands fall to the ground, like a rain of petals, as blood-red as the roses that guard the chamber at the top of the tower.

The tower is dark at night. Dark, cold and silent.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, so my first fic on this site. I would really appreciate reviews, especially ones that can point out all my flaws. My teachers never do that. If you're not going to give me a perfect mark at least tell me why! It's so annoying...


End file.
